


Other Kingdoms

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Horror, Gen, M/M, Martin Blackwood: Big Damn Hero, OL (Original Leitner), Tea, Wildly Speculative Powers Behavior, spoilers MAG 120
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: "Is it like thisIn death's other kingdomWaking aloneAt the hour when we areTrembling with tenderness"T. S. Eliot - The Hollow MenMartin has an idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A post-120 idea that's taken me a while to work out. Planned to be two chapters and an epilogue, unless anything goes astray. I apparently remain utterly enamoured of Martin Blackwood, hero in soft jumpers, and I am strangely fine with that.

Martin has an idea.

 

It is not a sensible idea, he would be the first to admit. He feels oddly okay about that, though, because nothing about his life is very sensible these days. It rose up in him slowly, over days of visiting the hospital, hours of watching Jon lie there, unnaturally still. Watching his eyes, constantly moving behind their lids, like he’s having the most intense dreams. Not quite dead, and dreaming. The idea grew from a whisper of memory, to a niggling  _ what if _ , and now sits in Martin’s head solid as a stone, unignorable. 

 

Elias had seemed unworried, when he told them the news. Had spoken of Jon’s condition as if it were some temporary inconvenience, something they just needed to wait out. Martin’s spent half his life waiting around in hospitals. Waiting for test results and prognoses and treatment options, waiting for the doctors to tell him if this was the time his mum wouldn’t be coming home. He’s had enough of waiting. 

 

Jon wouldn’t approve, Martin knows. He feels the need to explain himself, although Jon can’t hear him, and he isn’t sure whether it’s a confession or a promise. 

 

“I’m going to try something,” he tells Jon. “It might not work, but if it does, it might help. And don’t worry, I’m not going into this blind. I’ve done the research - I’m actually a pretty good researcher when I don’t have an impossible-to-please boss breathing down my neck.”

 

He pauses, trying to think about how to say the next part. He can’t look at Jon’s face, focuses on his hands instead, lying pale and motionless on the covers. Tamps down the urge to take one of them in his own. It isn’t something he would do if Jon was awake. It wouldn’t be right, to do it when he’s...not. 

 

“If this works, you’ll probably be upset with me. That’s okay. I’d much rather have you angry with me than - than this. If it doesn’t work or if I, I mess it up somehow, I’m sorry. I hope you’ll at least know I tried.”

 

He glances up at Jon’s face then, features slack in a way that does not look peaceful. His eyes continue their movement, and this close Martin can see the web of capillaries traced across each eyelid, the flickering of eyelashes and the damp seam where they meet. He takes a deep breath, and gets up to go.

 

“I hope - I hope they aren’t bad dreams.”

 

It is shockingly easy to steal ( _borrow,_ Martin insists, even in his own head) from the Magnus Institute. Security is non-existent, which makes sense when the boss is an all-seeing entity. Even more sense when half the objects you might find there will destroy your mind completely, and the other half will straight up kill you. Any stolen item would inevitably find its way back to the Institute, once the police had finished scraping up the mess and dealing with civilian fallout. 

 

Also, well, Martin pays attention to people. It isn’t something most people think is important, but he’s always cared about the little details of others' lives. He marks down important dates on calendars, and asks about loved ones in photos, learns their names. Not for any particular reason, other than it makes him feel good when someone smiles at an unexpected birthday card. It’s a nice thing to do.

 

This is how he knows that Sonja in Artifact Storage is overworked - she tells anyone who’ll listen that they need to hire someone else - and that she always does her end of month paperwork on a Thursday so she can finish early on Friday. It’s easy, to approach when she’s flustered and buried in spreadsheets, determined to get through it so she can pick her kids up from their after-school club on time, and ask. 

 

Just a quick look at a Leitner, that’s all he needs. Just so he can close out this statement file he has, make a good impression on the new boss. Especially with Jon still out. 

 

It’s against the rules for Sonja to give him the keys to the Leitners, but well, she’s busy, and it’s only Martin. So she sighs and tells him to be quick - and not to tell  _ anyone _ about this - and ignores the messenger bag slung over his shoulder as he passes the sign reading  _Leave All Bags At Front Desk_ . It’s only Martin, after all.

 

Afterwards, Martin resists the urge to flee. That’s what guilty people do. Instead he goes back down to the Archives and gets back to work. He keeps looking down at his bag the entire time, checking on it as if what’s inside might be burning a hole through the canvas. It doesn’t, of course, and at just after five o’clock, he gathers up his bag and his jacket, says goodbye to Basira, and walks towards the exit as calmly as he can manage. 

 

The entire way he keeps expecting to be stopped. To hear Peter Lukas’ friendly, chilling voice in his ear explaining that  _ Elias tells me we have a little problem _ , a vice grip on his shoulder.  But nobody stops him. Not as he walks out the door of the Institute, not as he gets on the Tube, not as he bolts the door to his flat and leans against it, pulse pounding like he’s just run a race.

 

“All right,” he says. He opens his bag, half expecting the book to have grown tentacles or melted his phone or simply escaped. It has not, so he places it on the coffee table. 

 

The book sits there, looking innocuous. It has a glossy blue cover with the title printed in white blocky letters.

 

_ IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD: A GUIDE TO LUCID DREAMING & DREAM SHARING _

 

Beneath the title is a stylized drawing of a human head in profile, also white, with the brain depicted in lurid orange within. Abstract shapes and symbols emerge from the head, representing dreams, Martin can only assume. It is very nineties looking. 

 

The only odd thing about it is how realistic the drawing of the brain is, wrinkled and grooved, the lines of gray (well, orange) matter dividing and curling in on themselves over and over in a way that is disorienting, and...fascinating... Martin decides, firmly, not to look too closely at it. He would rather not have to look at the book at all, but, well, when there’s a wasp in the room he prefers to know where it is.

 

There’s nothing much to be done about it until later, so Martin cooks dinner (he’s been learning from Youtube since the Prentiss incident put him off ready meals for good), and washes up, and reads through the photocopied statement he brought home one more time. 

 

Not that he could forget it. He recorded this one - months ago now, while Jon was away somewhere - and it is indelible in his mind. Not just the events, but how it felt to experience them. It had crawled into his thoughts as he sat in Jon’s hospital room,  _ statement of Meera Singh, regarding a book purchased by her boyfriend and related dreams,  _ and has since refused to give up that real estate. Anything to do with dreams is usually dismissed outright by the Institute, of course, but when those dreams are linked with a Leitner, they get taken rather more seriously. 

 

The thing is, it might actually work. Martin is a bit terrified, and part of him can’t believe he’s going to willingly expose himself to a  _ Leitner _ , of all things. But it might work. And for Jon, he’ll try. He supposes Elias was right about that.

 

The hospital is quiet by the time he arrives, the lights dimmed for patient comfort and only the night shift staff walking the corridors. It is long past visiting hours, but Martin flashes his Magnus Institute ID and the nurse on duty becomes pointedly busy with something else. Whatever the Institute is paying for Jon’s accommodation, it is enough for questions not to be asked and rules not to apply. 

 

In Jon’s room, Martin pulls the visitor chair out of the corner, up to the bed. Proximity is important, he thinks. Meera Singh’s statement had talked about how she and her boyfriend had to be sharing a bed for it to work, at least at first. Martin isn’t planning to be quite  _ that _ close to Jon (he feels his ears go warm at the thought), but he’ll get as near as is reasonable. 

 

He settles into the chair - and really, he would have thought a private hospital would have more comfortable furniture - and sets the alarm on his phone. He’s read that it takes about ninety minutes to enter the first phase of REM sleep, which lasts around ten. He’s not sure if normal rules apply when dealing with a Leitner, but he reckons two hours should be okay. The alarm will be his safety net. 

 

Martin puts the phone aside and pulls the book into his lap. His heart is skittering, system wired with adrenaline. The statement described the book as having a sedative effect, and he can only hope that’s the case, or he might not be able to fall asleep at all. He opens the front cover, where the ornate Juergen Leitner nameplate looks ridiculously out of place, and skims the contents for the page he needs. Flips to the page titled  _ Guided Sleep Meditation _ , takes a deep breath, and begins to read.

 

_ (Afterwards, he can never describe the text even to himself. He recalls that the page had words on it, or at least letters, printed stark black on white. The letters had been...twisted somehow? Or branched? He had definitely read them, although he has only vague impressions of their meaning. Something about embracing the reality of dreams and ruling the kingdom of your unconscious...or was it losing yourself in the kingdom and embracing an unconscious reality?)  _

 

A vast wave of lassitude sweeps over him, and Martin’s eyelids droop helplessly as the text on the page spins out of his vision. He feels the book drop out of his hand, and then - 

 

Martin is trying to get on a bus. He has been waiting forever for a bus to come, and he knows this is the only bus that’s going to come, and he is panicking because he is already late for his first day at a new job. 

 

The queue in front of him is endless, shuffling slowly forward, never getting any shorter. He can see that the bus is already packed, and the queue in front of him is endless. Shuffling slowly forward. Martin shuffles with it. The queue is never getting any shorter. He shuffles. The queue is endless. It is his turn to get on the bus. He realizes that he’s forgotten to get out his fare. He reaches into his pocket, but he can’t seem to grasp the coins. They slide through his fingers like sand, while he reaches and reaches.

 

The driver glares at him. The crowd of people cramming the bus from floor to ceiling glare at him. The queue shifts behind him, an impatient beast. Martin sweats and reaches further into his pocket, which now seems impossibly deep, and then - 

 

_ it’s all in your head _

 

\- he knows he’s dreaming. He turns and pushes his way off the bus, until he’s standing on the street. The queue and the bus are both gone. Martin glances around for anything strange, skin mannequins or spiders or hands full of bones. But it’s just an ordinary London street. A generic street, similar to any number of streets Martin knows, but not actually any of them. Bustling with generic people, whose features don’t quite come into focus when he looks at them. A rough impression of the city.

 

He starts walking, hoping the streets will take him somewhere he knows. He walks for...some time. It’s difficult to tell how long, but the streets remain frustratingly nonspecific. Martin thinks back to the statement, Meera Singh’s description of how she had simply -  _ pictured _ the location she wanted and found herself there.

 

Martin stops, shuts his eyes, and thinks about the Archives. Draws the picture as clear as he can in his mind. The tall shelves, jumbled with yellowing files. The smell of old paper and dust and moldering carpets. His own desk, cluttered with paperwork he needs to finish and with the ink stain where his pen leaked last month. Feels the warm pitted wood under his hands, opens his eyes, and there it is. He laughs, surprised and pleased and a little unnerved. 

 

Jon’s office is dark and cold. There are some scattered papers on the desk, and the black monolith of a tape recorder, but no sense that anyone has been here in a long time. Martin pushes away the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

He walks around the rest of the Archives, and then the Institute. He sees people, Melanie and Basira and Pamela from Research, but when he really  _ looks _ at them, they’re not, actually...quite. It’s dream logic, people recreated just enough to recognize without actually being  _ them _ . It sets his teeth on edge, but he tries not think about it, doesn’t look too close when a vague sketch of Tim passes him in the corridor. 

 

Elias’ former office is his last resort, and it is empty. Martin sits in Elias’ chair, which is just as comfortable as he’d imagined. Which, well, of course. He leans back into the yielding leather and sighs. 

 

In Meera Singh’s statement, she and her boyfriend chose her flat as the meeting place for their first shared dream. A location familiar to them both, that they could both easily picture. The Institute was the obvious choice for where he might find Jon. 

 

The only choice, if Martin is honest, because Jon is so aggressively private that Martin has only the vaguest idea where he lives. Has certainly never actually been in Jon’s home, and has no idea where he spends his free time. If “free time” is even something Jon does. The only other places he’s been with Jon are Gertrude Robinson’s storage locker, and the pub around the corner from the Institute, the one time when Jon had extremely grudgingly joined them for Christmas drinks. Neither of those seem likely. 

 

There is one other thing he can try, though it’s a long shot. Martin closes his eyes, and thinks about Jon. Tries to focus on all the details of him: the sound of his voice, his constantly furrowed brow, the way his mouth twists a little when it’s trying to smile against his better judgment. The truly obnoxious way he slurps his tea when he’s engrossed in something he’s reading. Builds a picture of Jon in his head - not just how he looks, but the essential Jon-ness of him - and concentrates on it until his heart aches. 

 

He shivers as a cold breeze sweeps across his face. Opens his eyes to damp fog, thick and swathing as a scarf. Wet grass under his feet. He can barely see through the gray, but somewhere ahead he can make out low, lumpy shapes dotting the ground. He realizes with a start that they are gravestones. Where is he?

 

He hears a sound, faint and distant. It sounds like someone crying. Martin has seen too many zombie films to trust strange sounds in graveyards, but, well, it’s all he has to go on. He walks in what he thinks is the right direction, though it’s difficult to pinpoint the source through the deadening curtain of fog.

 

The mist is freezing, but that isn’t what makes the hair prickle on the back of his neck. Martin feels like he’s being watched. He looks around him as he walks, but there is nothing moving, no figure in the fog looking at him. Still he can’t shake the sensation. 

 

The fog coils around him like a curious cat, and then parts ahead. Just enough that he can see the open grave, the hands reaching up out of it, scrabbling at the grass and mud, the sobbing pleas coming from within. And Jon, standing over the grave. His face contorted in horror, body rigid, eyes fixed on the person frantically trying to escape. He is not trying to help, just watching, as if he cannot do anything else.

 

“Jon!” Martin shouts. Jon gives no indication that he hears. Martin rushes towards him, then stops, bewildered. He hasn’t moved from where he was standing. He frowns and walks forward again. He can feel his feet moving, the give of the wet earth beneath them, but the scene before him stays stubbornly distant. Martin starts running, and it is like so many of his worst dreams, where he runs and runs towards or away from something, never making any progress. 

 

He shouts again, waves his arms, screams until his throat is hoarse. Rips a clod of dirt out of the ground beneath him and throws it as hard as he can. It thumps on the ground a few feet ahead of him. Jon remains oblivious, as if Martin were not there at all. He keeps staring down into that open grave, at the person who is weeping and begging to be let out, to not be left alone, and oh there is something dreadfully familiar about this. 

 

The fog curls in thicker again, and the scene dims to gray in front of him, the cries and the gravestones fading out while that sense of being watched grows stronger. Martin keeps walking through the gloom, helpless to do anything but feel his way forward with no other guide than the ground beneath his feet. 

 

After some stretch of time he feels the yielding earth turn firm, then hard and slick. The gray rolls away to show tiles underfoot, lab benches stretched out around him, covered in obscenely pulsing lumps of meat, each seeping dark blood that pours over the lip of the benches and pools on the ground. 

 

The blood does not reach Martin, but it laps up around the feet of a man in a lab coat who is desperately averting his eyes from the beating hearts, directing his despairing, accusing gaze at Jon. Jon is standing with that same expression of frozen terror on his face, watching as the blood licks around the man’s ankles and the hearts pulse their grotesque rhythm, and Martin is once again unable to approach, is entirely ignored except for the unseen eyes that bore into him. 

 

A low, thrumming sound enters the fringe of his consciousness, louder and louder and rising to a shrieking crescendo and he recognizes it as - 

 

His alarm, buzzing shrilly as he startles awake. For a few seconds he has no idea where he is, and he almost falls scrambling out of the chair to grab his phone, because his right leg has gone to sleep. His head feels stuffed with cotton wool. It takes a minute or two for the disorientation to pass, and he scrubs his hands over his face to wake himself up. Then he starts to gather up his belongings, including the fallen Leitner. 

 

He could cry with frustration. He was  _ so close _ to Jon, and he  _ knows  _ it was real. Not because Martin has never dreamt about a creepy graveyard in his life (a  _ lot _ of zombie films) but because he recognized the scene. Both of them, in fact. He’s been listening to a lot of the statements, learning as much as he can in what has so far felt like a vain attempt to regain some control over the horror show of his recent life, and he is entirely certain. Those  _ were  _ Jon’s dreams, and he is dreaming about the statements. 

 

The next day at work he doesn’t hear any rumors about missing items, and nobody comes to interrogate him or escort him off the premises. It seems the decoy book he placed in the Leitner’s case (some young adult fiction he’d picked up at Oxfam for just that purpose) is doing its job. Nobody looks at the Leitners any closer than they absolutely have to, so as long as there is  _ something  _ in the case, he might get away with it for a while. For long enough, he hopes.

 

He feels...off, all day. Sort of...woolly, like he can’t quite focus on anything in front of him. He knew to expect this. Meera Singh had talked about the feeling of unreality that had gotten worse each time she used the book, until she could barely tell dreams from waking some days. It is a bit unnerving, but Martin knew the risks of using a Leitner, and accepted them. He isn’t going to back down now.

 

He doesn’t get much work done, too distracted by thinking about the statements. There are hundreds of them in the Archives - thousands - and no way for him to know which ones might haunt Jon’s dreams. He thinks about Naomi Herne and Lionel Elliot, anything their specific statements might have in common. Naomi Herne’s was related to the Lukas family, but Lionel Elliot’s had not been. They both gave their statements directly to tape, rather than on paper. Directly to Jon, in fact. 

 

That thought snags in Martin’s brain, and he turns it over carefully, examining it. There is something weirdly intimate about recording the statements. Like climbing inside another person’s skin. Could taking a statement directly be a step further, experiencing someone’s fear and confusion and pain at the  _ same time _ they are reliving it? Could those statements stand out most vividly to Jon’s unconscious mind?

 

It’s...definitely possible. But that still leaves the problem of whatever barrier or, or  _ dissonance _ kept him from reaching Jon last night. Kept Jon from even knowing he was there, like a radio transmitter tuned to a slightly different frequency than the receiver. He thinks about Meera Singh again, her description of that first dream. She and her boyfriend had each independently imagined themselves in her flat, someplace they both knew, where their separate dreams had bled together into a single, synchronized experience. 

 

(Later, she said, he’d been able to just sort of, _ turn up _ , wherever she was in her dreams. That was how he’d invaded her mind on that last terrifying occasion before she left him for good. When he had become obsessed with the dreams, retreating from reality and not knowing or caring to tell the difference. Martin doesn’t like to think about that part, or how Meera had taken the book from his flat after his suicide, and brought it to the Institute.)

 

There is only one statement that he and Jon may know equally well. One that they have both experienced, in their own way. Martin’s skin crawls at the very idea, but it is the best thing he can think to try. 

 

That night finds him back at the hospital, wedging himself into the visitor chair as comfortably as he can manage. He still has a crick in his neck from yesterday’s attempt. It’s Friday night, and most people are out enjoying themselves, while Martin is planning an excursion into his boss’ dreams with the help of a spooky book. Par for the course, really.

 

He sets the alarm for two REM cycles, three and a half hours, because he wants time to figure this out, doesn’t want to be dragged back to wakefulness before he’s ready. Opening the book to see that ornate nameplate is no less discomfiting the second time, but Martin has become pretty accustomed to that feeling. Most of what happens in his life is unsettling or upsetting or both these days. He turns to the  _ Guided Sleep Meditation  _ page and - 

 

This time he knows almost instantly that he is not actually back in his GCSE English exam, just beginning an essay on  _ Hamlet _ with only five minutes left on the clock. The now-familiar mantra - 

 

_ it’s all in your head _

 

\- floats through his mind and he dismisses the wooden school desk, closing his eyes and concentrating. It is easy to imagine. Too easy, a scenario his traitorous brain pulls up and replays regularly in his dreams, despite his best waking efforts not to dwell on it. Always close at hand.

 

He is in his flat. It is dark, because the power is out, and cold. Dim gray light filters in through the kitchen window, his only tenuous link to the world he can’t reach. Towels and rags are packed in around the edges of the window, sealing every crack. Clothing is stuffed into every inch of the door frame. The air is stale, quiet except for the sound right outside the door. The sickening sound made by thousands of tiny, wet bodies squirming together. 

 

Martin feels his mouth go dry, his brain reflexively going into panic mode. He clenches his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. This is a dream, he tells himself. Jane Prentiss is long dead. This is just a memory recreated by his mind. He is aware, and he is in control. 

 

A knock starts on the door, steady and insistent, and Martin jumps. His pulse is racing. He knows this is just a dream, he  _ knows _ , but it is so real. It feels like it’s happening to him all over again, those days and days of imprisonment, of terror and hunger and exhaustion. Like maybe he never left, like everything since has been the dream, imagined in his few snatched moments of sleep.

 

Martin stands watching the door, listening to that gentle knocking, and feels the awful compulsion to answer it. It would be so easy, to give in to the inevitability of what lies beyond and just...open the door. He feels again as if he is being watched, some strange and inscrutable presence bearing down on him, impassively observing what he will do next. Martin knows what he will do next, because it is what he always does in this dream, he will walk over and open the door and - 

 

The knocking stops, as does the wet organic sound of the worms. There is utter silence for a few seconds, nothing but brittle air and that cold observational pressure, and then Martin hears the sound of footsteps outside his flat. Slow, hesitant footfalls on tile, stopping at his front door. Then silence again, the heavy silence of someone not making any sound.

 

Martin walks towards the door, scarcely daring to breathe. Hurriedly undoes the bolt and chain lock, and turns the handle, his clammy palm slipping a little. The door opens, shirts and socks tumbling to the floor around him. 

 

Jon is standing outside his door, hand outstretched as if he had been about to try the handle himself. When he sees Martin (he  _ sees  _ Martin), his eyes go wide and he steps back as if he’s been burned. Backs up into the wall behind him, and shakes his head frantically.

 

“No,” he says, scarcely more than a whisper. “No, not him too. No, please, isn’t it  _ enough _ already, please, no - ”

 

Martin isn’t sure exactly what he’d expected from a reunion, but this isn’t it. He takes a step forward.

 

“Jon?” he says carefully. Jon’s eyes focus on him, then narrow, suddenly intent.

 

“What are you?” he demands. 

 

“What? Jon, it’s me - honestly. I know it’s pretty weird, but I can explain.”

 

“No.” Jon’s voice is low, but his tone cuts like a knife. “I know you’re not really Martin, and none of the other apparitions the Eye likes to torment me with ever speak, so I will ask you again.  _ What are you? _ ”

 

Martin gasps as the full force of the Archivist’s compulsion rolls over him like an avalanche, vast and inescapable. Jon’s eyes on him are cold, magisterial. Martin’s mouth opens.

 

“I’m Martin Blackwood,” he hears himself say. “I’m an archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, I work for you. I came here to find you. To - to bring you home.”

 

The compulsion flows away and Martin blinks a few times. His eyes are watering, and his breath is coming fast. Jon stares at him for several long seconds, then folds in on himself. His face crumples and he seems to lose power in his legs, sliding down the wall into a heap. He buries his head in his hands.

 

“Oh god,” he mumbles. Martin hesitates, then walks over and crouches down next to him. He can’t think of anything else to do. Jon’s head raises to look at him, and his expression is distraught. 

 

“God, Martin,” he says, “What are you  _ doing _ here? How could you be so  _ stupid _ ?”

 

“I...wanted to help,” Martin says, trying not to feel the sting at his words. “You weren’t getting any better, and nobody else was doing anything, so I decided to.” 

 

“You have to leave,” Jon starts looking around fearfully. “However you got here, you have to go  _ right now _ . It - it seems to be keeping its distance for now, but it’s still watching, and if it comes while you’re here - ”

 

Martin can feel that unfathomable weight of scrutiny press down on him, so much stronger than it had been in the flat. He feels like an amoeba looking up at the incomprehensible enormity of a microscope lens. If this is  _ keeping its distance _ , he can’t imagine what Jon has been going through, all this time. He glances at the door to his flat, still standing ajar. 

 

“Come inside,” he suggests, standing up. “I - I have control over things, in there. I think. It might be safer.”

 

“No,” Jon scrambles to his feet, almost panicky. “I can’t hide from it, there isn’t anywhere  _ to _ hide. You need to leave, and not come back. Please _ , _ Martin.”

 

He starts to back away, holding his hands up as if trying to fend something off. Martin reaches out a hand towards him but even as he does that crushing presence looms larger, closer, so heavy it knocks the breath out of him. 

 

Martin doubles over, an aching pressure swelling in his head, and when he is able to look up again Jon is gone, and the corridor around him is dissolving into gray. The door is the only thing left with any definition, and Martin staggers to it, collapses in towards the awful beige carpet he’s always hated and knows that  _ he needs to wake up now - _

 

He wakes with a jolt. He is...shaken, exhilarated, his head spinning. He checks on Jon first, but no change there of course. Only then does he look at his phone. It’s after midnight, which means his alarm didn’t wake him. Either it didn’t go off, or he managed to disable it in his sleep. Either way, not good.

 

He splashes water on his face in the small attached bathroom, combs damp fingers through his hair to return it to some semblance of order. Looks in the mirror, and sees himself looking back: pale, distressed, but determined. He knows where Jon is  _ (oh god, that horrible watcher) _ and he knows how to reach him. 

 

The only question left is how to bring Jon back. And Martin does not intend to stop until he figures it out.

 

The next night he does not set his alarm. The flat is cold and dark, and the worms writhe outside, and his imagination knocks on the door. He waits, and waits, but no footsteps approach. He wakes with a crooked neck and no concept of where he is for several seconds. Walks out past the hospital staff, who give him surreptitious looks. They must know by now he’s sleeping there, but he can’t find it in him to care much. 

 

He spends Sunday in a haze, watching telly and dozing on the sofa. Goes back to the hospital again. 

 

The flat is cold and dark. He waits, and no footsteps approach. Martin keeps waiting. Wakes in the hospital room at three in the morning and glares at Jon’s still form. He has always admired Jon’s stubbornness, as someone who is far too pliant himself, but not this time. If Jon thinks he can wait Martin out, that if he stays away Martin will give up, he has another think coming. 

 

He calls in sick to work on Monday, and Basira tells him he sounds rotten and not to come back until he’s better. It doesn’t even feel like a lie, not really. His head is muzzy like he’s in the early stages of flu. And anyway, he’s sure Elias knows exactly what he’s doing, jail or no jail, and doesn’t care as long as he gets to observe. If Peter Lukas has been informed, he’s probably just pleased to see Martin isolating himself. 

 

It feels like he hasn’t slept at all, and he spends most of Monday in bed. He leaves the Leitner in a drawer in the kitchen, just in case. 

 

He dreams about the Archives, but all the books are staring at him. When he opens them the words are unreadable, bifurcating vines that creep down the page and off the edge and coil up his wrists. He tries to go upstairs to the main building, but the staircase has changed into an endless, elongated corkscrew that rolls away beneath his feet as he climbs. 

 

He wakes late in the day and gets to the hospital in a fog, with no recollection of the journey. He knows the Leitner is affecting him. Part of him thinks he should take a break, wait a few days until he feels more normal and try again. Then he imagines those lonely footsteps approaching his door while he isn’t there, and knows that isn’t an option. 

 

He reads the Leitner; he falls asleep. He waits, in the cold and the dark.

 

He hears footsteps in the corridor. Martin leaps for the door and yanks it open. Jon is standing there, his expression torn between despair and yearning.

 

“How long are you going to keep coming back?” he asks miserably.

 

“As long as I need to,” says Martin firmly. “Do you want to come in?”

 

Jon nods. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jon walks inside Martin’s dream of his flat and sits on the sofa while Martin makes tea. He could probably just imagine it into existence, but the ritual is calming. The tap works, somewhat surprisingly, as does the kettle. The cupboards have nothing in them but two mugs and a box of teabags. Similarly, a carton of milk is the only inhabitant of the fridge. Martin tries to ignore the way all the teaspoons have curled themselves into spirals, and leaves the teabag in the mug.

 

He sits on the sofa beside Jon, who takes his tea and just holds it. The room seems a little warmer somehow, the light coming through the window more golden than gray. Jon looks around.  

 

“This is your flat?” he says. Martin nods. 

 

“Excuse the mess,” he jokes weakly. “I don’t have a lot of visitors, other than worm monsters.” 

 

“How is this possible?” Jon asks. He sounds as if he still hardly believes that this is really happening. Which, well,  _ really happening _ is debatable here. 

 

Martin tells him. It takes a while, and by the end of it Jon looks - well, not good. His face a mix of existential horror, resignation and grief.

 

“How long,” he asks, “Have I been - gone?”

 

“Almost a month, now.”

 

“A  _ month _ ,” Jon pants out a humorless laugh. “God, it feels like - actually I don’t have any idea how long it feels like. Not the first clue. I - I think I lost myself, for a while. Forgot who I was, other than “the Archivist”. Forgot to even wonder.”

 

“Time gets a bit weird in here,” Martin agrees.

 

“And you,” says Jon. “You stole a Leitner from the Institute, and you’ve been _using_ it. I can’t even begin to describe how irresponsible that is. It’s not a, a _screwdriver,_ Martin, it’s an indescribable monster in the shape of a book.”

 

“Do you actually think I don’t know that?” Martin hears his voice going high and tight with tension, hates that it makes him sound upset when he’s actually really annoyed. “I’m not an idiot, Jon. I did the research, even followed up with the woman who gave the original statement. She’s  _ fine _ , by the way, went completely back to normal after she stopped using the book. No issues in years. And you could be a bit grateful, I did this to help you.”

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Jon says flatly. “You shouldn’t have put yourself at risk on the frankly slim chance you might be able to help me. It’s not worth it.”

 

“It is to me.”

 

Jon stares at him for a long moment, then averts his gaze, looking down into his mug. 

 

“I - You’re right,” he says quietly. “I should be grateful, and I  _ am _ , Martin. It’s - I can’t believe you would - ” 

 

He stalls helplessly, and all Martin wants to do at that moment is reach out to him, try to find some way to ease the lines of pain and fear from his face. He doesn’t, of course. They finish their tea in silence.

 

“It does feel...better, in here,” Jon says eventually. “I feel more myself. I can still  _ feel  _ it, but not as much. And while I’m here I don’t have to - to watch.”

 

“You could stay here,” Martin suggests, “Until we figure something out.”

 

“I don’t think  _ here _ exists without you. Whatever power shapes these dreams of yours - and I have strong suspicions - it is enough to keep the Eye at a distance. Confuse it, maybe. But only while you’re asleep to feed it.” 

 

Martin shudders a little at the word  _ feed _ , but sets his jaw, resolved. 

 

“Well I’ll just keep coming, then.”

 

“You can’t do that,” says Jon, almost pleading. “Whatever effect that book is having, it’s only going to get worse. You’ve read enough statements to know how this goes.”

 

“You can’t stop me,” Martin tells him. “So the best thing you can do is help me figure out a way to wake you up.”

 

Jon gives a resigned sigh, and nods.

 

“All right,” he says. “I can’t do a lot, here, and while you’re gone I - I don’t think I’ll be much good for anything, frankly. So it will be down to you. I can suggest some places to look, though. The way you described my condition - what was it again?”

 

“A coma, but more so?”

 

“Yes, that,” Jon’s tone is wryly amused. “It sounds like the power Smirke called “the End” may be involved somehow. There are a number of statements related to it, I can give you the references. Those will be a start, at least.”

 

Martin wakes with the case numbers on his lips, burned into his brain from repetition. He scribbles them down immediately anyway, in case he forgets. He looks at Jon’s motionless body, his constantly moving eyes. Knowing the purgatory Jon is trapped in, he feels a deep aching guilt for leaving him there alone. But he also knows he’s more use out here, searching for a solution. He reaches down and pats Jon’s hand quickly. 

 

“We’ll figure it out, I promise,” he says, and then heads for home. He might just have time for a shower before work.

 

He spends the next - three days? - furiously researching the End. Reading the statements and the follow up notes, scouring the library for any information that looks even slightly related. He thinks it’s three days, anyway. The daylight hours seem to blur together in a haze of exhaustion and endless cross-referencing. Basira asks if he’s sure he should have come back to work so soon, and looks skeptical when he reassures her he’s fine.

 

The dreams are seeping into his waking life, he knows it. At times he looks at a page and sees thickets of dripping, meaningless symbols, twisting towards him in non-euclidean coils. Then he blinks, and the dull rows of text are back. Once Melanie walks in as he’s levering up a floorboard, absolutely certain he heard the sound of worms moving underneath, and he has to make up some excuse about dropping a pen down there. Melanie gives him a dubious look, and afterwards he doesn’t know if he dozed off at his desk, or if he’s just delusional.

 

By contrast, his nights pass in perfect clarity. He waits in the now-cosy flat until Jon arrives, rapping a sharp tempo on the door. Martin makes tea, and then tells Jon what he’s learned that day, and Jon frowns and suggests new texts to investigate, new leads to follow. Once they’ve exhausted useful discussion, Martin talks about normal things while Jon sinks further into the sofa and half listens, making little  _ mm-hmm _ sounds of acknowledgement with his eyes closed. 

 

Martin doesn’t mind, because he knows the longer Jon spends here the more normal he feels. The Eye that torments Jon’s hours is not absent - Martin feels its constant observation - but it is distant, tolerable. Whatever respite Martin can offer from the suffering Jon is going through, he’s glad to do it. 

 

He thinks maybe Jon even enjoys it a little. Once he gets distracted thinking about an 18th century diary he’d been reading that day, and trails off from his blow-by-blow description of the cold war currently ongoing between two research teams over a coveted white board. After a few moments of silence, Jon opens his eyes and prompts:

 

“So, did they find out who took all the dry erase markers?”  

 

Martin smiles, and Jon’s head drops back onto the cushion as the story continues. 

 

He knows it’s not healthy, exposing himself so much to the Leitner’s influence. Spending more time in a mental recreation of his flat than in the real place, and liking it more. Sometimes he forgets what’s real in the middle of the day; once or twice he almost tells Basira, casually, about something Jon said to him last night, before he catches himself. Sometimes he wishes desperately that he didn’t have to wake up at all, didn’t have to leave Jon there alone. He would never voice the desire, of course, because it’s ridiculous and Jon would worry, but that doesn’t make it any less unhealthy. He meant what he said, though. It’s worth it.  

 

It’s the weekend again - at least Martin is fairly sure it is - when he has a thought. It’s a curious thought, but it intrigues him, and he badly wants to run it by Jon. All his frantic research this week has led to exactly nothing, false leads and dead ends and circular arguments. And now this idea, come to him fully formed out of nowhere, and he thinks he might actually be on to something. He gets to the hospital earlier than usual, ignoring the questionable looks he gets from the staff. They don’t know the half of it.

 

Martin pulls the Leitner out of his bag as soon as he gets into the room. It feels familiar in his hands by now, weirdly compelling, and a shiver of anticipation runs up his spine as he holds it. His fingers stroke helplessly over the cover. Martin knows that is a bad sign, and reminds himself sternly of how dangerous the book is. Still, it isn’t as if he has a choice. 

 

His hands tremble eagerly as he opens the book. 

 

“I have an idea,” he tells Jon as soon as he opens the door. 

 

“Hang on a minute,” Jon says, stepping inside. “Let me just - just get my bearings.”

 

Martin is almost jogging with excitement by the time Jon settles onto the sofa, and watches breathlessly as Jon notices the book sitting on the coffee table, glossy blue cover against the pale wood.

 

“Martin,” he says, slow and cautious. “What is this?”

 

“It’s my idea,” Martin tells him. “Have you ever seen  _ Inception _ ?”

 

“I think you know the answer to that,” Jon answers dryly. Martin waves it away.

 

“Well it doesn’t matter,” he says. “The point is, I think we’ve been going about this the wrong way, trying to figure out how to wake you up. I think you need to find a way to control your dreams, so you can wake  _ yourself _ up.”

 

“And the Leitner - ?”

 

“It’s just my recreation from memory,” Martin says. “But I know it pretty well at this point, and details aren’t that important in dreams, are they? I mean, I don’t understand the inner workings of a kettle, but I can still make a pretty good cup of tea in here.”

 

“So your hypothesis is that if I read your dream facsimile of a book that causes lucid dreaming, I will be able to wake myself up?”

 

“I mean, basically, yes? The book gives a lot of control. It belongs to one of the - the powers, and it  _ is _ all about dreams. A dream copy might be enough to get you free of what’s controlling your dreams.” 

 

Jon puts his head in his hands and sighs.

 

“This is...absolutely ridiculous,” he says. “It’s - it’s completely untested, based on wild speculation, probably  _ insanely _ dangerous - ”

 

“It might work,” says Martin. Jon looks up at him.

 

“It...might,” he concedes. “So, uh, how  _ does  _ it work?”

 

Martin describes it to him, as well as he can. Jon nods pensively as Martin explains, his eyes repeatedly straying to the book’s lurid cover. 

 

“Somewhere I know well,” he says thoughtfully. “That would have to be the Archives, I suppose. I - I haven’t spent much time in the new flat since I moved in. Can’t even think what the carpet looks like.”

 

“And it wouldn’t work for me, since I’ve never been there.”

 

Jon gives him a surprised look.

 

“You?” he says. “Are you, uh, planning to be there?”

 

“Yeah?” Martin replies. “I mean, you’ve never done this before, so it’ll be easier if you have someone with you. I might be able to help. Anyway what else am I going to do, sit here being watched by your supernatural stalker?”

 

“It’s not my - ” Jon begins, then stops as he sees Martin grinning. “It...makes sense, I suppose. The Archives, then.”

 

“I’ll meet you there,” Martin tells him, and Jon gives him a tight smile.

 

“Thank you, Martin,” he says. “Whether this works or not, everything you’ve done for me is… It’s extraordinary. You’re...well, you’re a better friend than I deserve.”

 

“Oh, I - umm, thank you?” Martin stutters, his face going crimson hot, then steels himself and continues: “I - I think maybe you don’t realize what you deserve.”

 

Jon looks away and mumbles some unintelligible denial, flushing with embarrassment. He reaches for the book.

 

“Here it goes, then,” he says, and flips through until he finds the correct page. Martin watches as Jon’s eyes move down and go unfocused, his lips moving minutely and silently. His expression is anguished, as if something awful is going on behind his eyes.  _ Is that how I look _ , Martin wonders. 

 

Jon’s eyelids slip shut and his features go loose and relaxed. His hands go limp on the book and he falls back into the sofa cushions and then -

 

He’s gone, between one moment and the next, as if he was never there at all. Martin blinks with surprise, but he supposes he shouldn’t be. It’s not as if Jon has a body to stay here asleep while he’s dreaming elsewhere. Now’s not the time to think about it anyway - he has someplace to be. Martin shuts his eyes, and thinks of the Archives.

 

The dream Archives are familiar as before, cramped with cabinets and shelves, musty smelling. There is no sign of Jon, and Martin calls his name as he walks around. No response comes. Nobody else is here either, no half-formed simulacra of people he knows, and Martin feels the watchful presence that has become routine to his sleeping mind. That makes him more optimistic. He’s only felt the Eye on him when Jon is nearby. 

 

He sees the archway as he heads towards the stairs, intending to check the rest of the building. It is taller than head height and roughly finished, just a hole hacked in the stone wall. Through it he can see rows of shelves that are cluttered with dusty books and file folders, just like the rest of the Archives. Except, Martin is very aware that he has never seen this archway or this room before. The feeling of being watched grows stronger the closer he gets to the entrance, near and oppressive, and he knows with absolute certainty that Jon is through there. 

 

Martin steels himself, and steps through the archway into the other Archives. It is like the Archives he knows, but utterly wrong. It is enormous - infinite - the shelves stretching in every direction beyond his range of vision, teeming with files and vanishing towards some imagined point of intersection. The ceiling vaults overhead higher than any cathedral, up and up until it is lost in congregations of shadow, and the ranks of shelves claw their way towards it like trees fighting for sunlight. The structure is vast, and overwhelming, and completely silent.

 

That agonizing scrutiny presses down on him as he enters, so heavy he can scarcely breathe and his head aches. A bone deep dread creeps over him, seeping through his pores, the knowledge that the watcher sees everything about him, every nasty little secret and every lie he tells even to himself. He is naked under its dissolving gaze, and soon he will be utterly exposed and everyone will know just how pathetic he is. 

 

Martin can barely walk, can barely see through the presence that threatens to overwhelm him, but he forces himself upright and moves forward. He has to find Jon. He doesn’t know how long he stumbles through the looming twilight of the shelves, his head reeling and his heart hammering fearfully. It might be minutes or hours, in the terrified limbo of absolute exposure. Finally he turns a corner and sees a figure leaning heavily against the shelves, struggling to stay upright. Jon has a hand pressed to his forehead and is breathing quick and shallow. 

 

“Jon!” Martin tries to shout, but his voice comes out thin and reedy, every word an effort. Jon’s head snaps around to him, wild eyed. He staggers towards Martin.

 

“What is this?” Martin gasps. “It’s never - We need to get out of here!”

 

“I - I don’t - my  _ head _ ,” Jon groans, and Martin feels it too, that terrible crushing weight of  _ seeing _ , like it’s looking directly at the inside of his skull, like he’s been split open and pinned and  _ taken note of _ . He gasps painfully.

 

“You have to  _ wake up _ ,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “You’re in control, you have to wake up, Jon - ”

 

“I - yes - ” Jon shuts his eyes, brows knitted with concentration. Martin squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about waking up in that hospital room, both of them waking up there, wills it so hard that his eyes water and his head pounds while the Eye peels his skin and muscle and bone away and - 

 

Martin opens his eyes, sits up and blinks to clear the sleep haze from his vision. The hospital room is dark. He hears the sound of shifting fabric from the bed as Jon turns towards him, raising his head off the pillow.

 

“Martin?” he says, voice hoarse. Martin could cry. 

 

“You’re awake!”

 

Jon struggles to sit up, his muscles weakened from lack of use. Martin moves to help him, guides him upright with one hand on his arm and one on his back. It’s cold in the room, but Jon is fever warm through the thin hospital gown.

 

“Are you all right?” Martin asks him, and Jon nods weakly, scratching absently at the side of his neck. Martin shivers. It really is cold in here. Probably the heating isn’t working. Or maybe the electricity is out altogether, which would explain why the lights are off rather than dimmed. It is quiet, but there is an indistinct noise on the very edge of Martin’s hearing. 

 

“What’s that?” he says.

 

“I don’t hear anything,” Jon says, scratching his arm. Martin listens, strains to hear, and the sound comes into focus, soft and organic. The sound of thousands of tiny, wet bodies squirming together, right outside the room. Martin gasps, his pulse jumping.

 

“What’s the matter?” says Jon, and Martin realizes that in the dark, he can’t exactly make out Jon’s face, his features not entirely resolving, as if he’s not...quite...

 

A soft knocking starts on the door, and Martin whirls, panicked. The sound of the worms is growing louder, squishing under the door and in around the windows and writhing above the ceiling tiles. The knocking is quiet and unrelenting. 

 

“Martin?” Jon says, and Martin can see the lumps bulging up under his skin where he scratches it, the old scars impossibly splitting open, silver writhing under the skin and this isn’t possible it isn’t possible she’s dead she’s dead he’s - 

 

\- dreaming, he’s still dreaming -

 

He wakes with a gasp, blank and disoriented, and for several moments just stares into space, waiting to remember what’s going on. He is in the hospital. The room is dimly lit, equipment humming gently. He is awake. He  _ is _ awake, isn’t he? Or is this - No, he’s awake. Definitely. Right?

 

His eyes wander towards Jon, who lies unmoving, eyelids flickering with terrible dreams. Martin feels a hollow pit yawning in his stomach, panic rising in his chest as it comes back to him. He left Jon,  _ he left Jon _ , just like in the tunnels, left him trapped in that endless Other Archives with that dreadful, watching, devouring presence, oh god he  _ left him _ .

 

Martin scrambles on the ground for the Leitner, grabbing it with frantic trembling fingers. Flips desperately to the meditation page and squashes the tiny voice in the back of his mind says maybe it’s not a good idea to use this thing twice in a single night. He needs to get to Jon, and this is how he does it.

 

He drops into a dream of flying, swooping high over a forested valley. It would be exhilarating if his mind wasn’t whirling with fear and guilt, and he dismisses the dream hurriedly, focuses on the Archives and finds himself instantly there. It is empty, and quiet, and there is no sense of being watched. There is no archway, and no infinite Other Archives, and no Jon. Martin feels a lump rising in the back of his throat, forces the panic down and thinks of home. 

 

The flat is desolate and dark, and Martin listens to the silence and feels like an absolute failure. He paces helplessly for what feels like forever, then sits on the couch with his head in his hands, then paces for another eternity. What can he do? What can he do? He can’t guess which dream Jon might be in, if any he knows, and even if he could he’s already proven he can’t reach Jon’s other dreams, just a powerless observer. All he can do is wait.

 

When that familiar knock finally comes Martin almost jumps out of his skin, nearly pulls the door off its hinges in his impatience to open it. Jon is standing there, looking haggard and distraught but wonderfully, entirely himself, and Martin reaches for him before he can help himself, throws his arms around Jon’s thin frame and just holds onto him. 

 

“Oh - ” Jon says, soft, and after a moment his hands settle on Martin’s back, gripping his shirt. Several long, relieved seconds later Martin releases him, mortified by his own need.

 

“Sorry,” he starts to say, but Jon doesn’t step back. Instead his hands come up to grasp at Martin’s arms, his shoulders, fingers moving fretfully like they’re trying to confirm what they’re touching is real. His expression is fraught.

 

“I thought it had you,” he says, his voice hoarse and trembling, “I thought I’d lost you in there, I thought it had  _ taken _ you - god - ”

 

Jon’s fingers slip around the back of his neck and up to his face and then Jon’s lips are pressing dry against the side of his mouth, hovering an anxious moment before kissing him for real. Martin freezes. Is this another forgery by his treacherous subconscious? Did he ever wake up at all? Except then Jon pulls back, and Martin can see his face in all its well-known detail, but the look of embarrassed hurt is new and painful.

 

“I, uh,” Jon begins awkwardly, but before he can make an apology or an excuse Martin tugs him close again, fits their mouths together and doesn’t let go. It takes a little while to get it right, but Martin doesn’t care because it’s  _ Jon _ , doesn’t even feel awkward, which is almost an unknown for him. Jon’s hands are still on the back of his neck, on his face, in his hair, and Martin had never imagined actually getting to do this, slides his own hands over Jon’s shoulder blades, the small of his back, as Jon’s mouth opens warm and eager under his.

 

Eventually Jon breaks the kiss, breathing hard. 

 

“I don’t suppose you, uh, dreamed a bedroom?”

 

Martin did, and he doesn’t even care about the fact that he imagined the bed unmade and messy, with a fugitive sock lurking under the duvet. What follows is all hesitant and fumbling and lovely, with lots of  _ is this  _ and  _ can I _ and  _ would you _ , a slow and careful exploration. Martin will admit he’s no expert, and Jon is looking at him with the same intent focus he’d give a fascinating new book, which is flattering and only a little unnerving. He furrows his brow and maps his fingers carefully over skin, and gasps at every place Martin touches him.

 

“Sorry,” he says at one point. “I don’t, uh, do this much, as a rule.”

 

“Oh!” says Martin. “I mean, we don’t have to, if you don’t - I honestly don’t mind.”

 

“No, I - I’ve just very rarely in my life met anyone I would want to, to do this with. But you’re - Well, you’re  _ you _ .”  

 

He cups both hands to Martin’s face and kisses him again, and Martin thinks he could die happy right here and now.

 

Afterwards they lie in the imagined crumpled sheets, and Jon presses close against him, making contact with every inch of skin he can. Martin would never have taken him for a cuddler, and the fact that he now knows this warms him all the way through. He never wants to move from this moment. That treacherous thought rolls through his head again, slippery and seductive,  _ you could just stay.  _ He shakes it off, thinks of something trivial to distract him.

 

“Tea?” 

 

By the time he returns with two mugs, Jon is dressed and looking thoughtful. Martin starts pulling his clothes on as well.

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Jon says as Martin is hunting for his shirt. 

 

“I hope not while we were - ” Martin jokes. Jon flushes a little.

 

“No, no,” he says. “Just now. About the Archives - the uh, the other Archives. I think it might be the  _ real _ Archives. Or the unreal Archives, I suppose. The, the  _ concept _ of the Archives. Are you familiar with the theory of Forms? Platonic realism?”

 

“Err…” says Martin. Jon stalls a moment, considering how to continue.

 

“Imagine an apple,” he says eventually. “Now imagine that there is a sort of an  _ ideal _ apple, like the pure  _ concept  _ of an apple, and it exists in a space beyond the physical. And every apple you see is just a, a  _ projection _ of that ideal into the world. Sort of a shadow. Now imagine instead of a man thinking about an apple, you’re an incomprehensibly powerful entity from outside the universe, and you’re thinking about an archive.”

 

“Oh,” says Martin. 

 

“Yes,” says Jon. “I mean, maybe.”

 

“So what does that mean?”

 

“I’m - I’m not entirely sure,” Jon admits. “But I know we can’t carry on like this.  _ You  _ can’t carry on putting yourself in harm’s way for me.”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Martin tells him. “And I  _ want  _ to.”

 

“I know you do. But I don’t want you to. If anything happened to you - ” Jon trails off, shakes his head and squares his shoulders. “This needs to end. Running from the Eye didn’t work, and hiding from it is a temporary solution at best. I need to face it.”

 

“Back to the Other Archives, then?” 

 

“For me,” Jon says firmly. “This is something I have to do, not you. You’ve risked enough for me - too much. I - please Martin, for me, you need to go back. I’ll do my best to follow, but no matter what, you  _ can’t _ use the book again. You’ve given me a chance, and it’s so much more than I had before.”

 

Martin sits down on the bed beside him and takes one of Jon’s hands in his, looks down at it, unable to meet Jon’s eyes. Curls his fingers around Jon’s long, thin ones and thinks how badly he had wanted to do this before. He’d never thought he would be able to. 

 

“No offense,” he says, “But you’re an absolute idiot. Do you really think I’d go this far and then stop?”

 

“Martin - ” Jon says, pained. His fingers slide between Martin’s, pressing their palms together.

 

“No, just - no,” Martin tells him, eyes still fixed on where their hands are joined. “I’m not going to leave you again. I’ve done it too many times, and you always get almost eaten by worms or devoured by a giant eye or whatever. I’m going with you, and you can’t stop me, so just, just get used to it!”

 

Finally he looks up, defiant, ready to stand up to any argument Jon might make. But Jon is just looking at him, lips parted in astonishment, face puzzled and intrigued. Is it really that hard to believe someone could care for him? Martin’s heart aches to consider it. He pulls Jon’s hand up and presses a kiss against the knuckles, quick and a little embarrassed. 

 

“I won’t leave you,” he says again. Jon ducks close and puts his arms around Martin, presses his mouth close to Martin’s ear as if to tell a secret. 

 

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, quiet and intense. “I - I don’t deserve you, but, thank you.”

 

Martin pulls him closer, wraps his own arms around Jon.

 

“I told you already,” he says, “You have no idea what you deserve.”

 

The Archives are dark and watchful when Martin imagines himself there, the titles of books unreadable and the shelves twisted and skewed. There is a hole in the wall, no longer an archway but a rough, ragged gap, like a closing wound. Like it doesn’t want Martin getting in. The hole is scarcely large enough and he feels skin raking away as he wriggles through. 

 

It’s somehow even worse than last time, as if the terrible entity that controls this place is focused on him, horribly present and alert. Its unseen eye bores into him like a pneumatic drill, and his head begins aching instantly, his chest compressing under its weight. It takes him several long moments to get to his feet, breathing shallowly through the pressure and the dread that shudders up his spine. 

 

“Jon!” he calls as loud as he can, through the stifling air and his own juddering throat muscles. Keeps calling as he staggers forward through that boundless forest of paper, all that massed information, lying catalogued and dead. Keeps calling until he hears his own name in response, faint and far away, and runs, reeling and unsteady, towards it. 

 

At last Jon comes into sight, stumbles towards him and grabs Martin’s shoulders to steady them both. He looks pale and exhausted, and his mouth is set in a grim, determined line. 

 

“Are you all right?” he says, his voice strained but controlled. 

 

“I - yeah,” pants Martin. “Yeah. What now?”

 

“There must be a - a center to all this,” Jon says, frowning. “That’s where we have to go.”

 

Martin nods. It’s hard to speak, with the full attention of that pitiless watcher flowing over him like liquid ice, freezing and scalding at once. He grasps Jon’s hand in his, locks their fingers together. He won’t leave Jon, will go with him wherever Jon needs to. Jon gets the message, smiles at him, mouth tight. They start walking, Jon leading the way.

 

Martin has no gauge for how long they walk. His head throbs and his eyes burn, he cannot feel his feet under him. It is difficult to think, after a while, the fog of pain and terror dulling his thoughts, until all that exists is the awareness of absolute scrutiny, like being vivisected over and over again, flayed right down to nerve and bone. The only thing he can cling to is the feeling of Jon’s hand in his, holding on, tight and real. He focuses on that one point of sensation, the one thing he can trust, and walks on through that endless maze of hoarded knowledge. 

 

And then, after countless minutes or days or centuries, the unending terror of the butterfly pinned to the board, there is the heart of the Archives. It is an indescribable edifice of wood and metal and paper, bristling with cameras and draped in magnetic tape, dripping ink and lens shards. And looming above it all, the Eye, the terrible Eye, lidless and wet, rolling in the socket of the universe. The Eye that turns to look at him.

 

Martin whimpers and tries to look away, but there is nowhere else in existence to look, and he knows he cannot avert his gaze even as it pulls him apart, peeling away the layers of his consciousness, frontal lobe to cortex to thalamus, stripping out everything he knows about himself to be catalogued and filed in the infinity of the Archives.

 

“No,” he hears a voice say, very far away and yet ringing sharp with authority. “Not him.”

 

The Eye shifts, slick pillars of muscle twitching minutely as its attention slides off Martin, just a little, just enough for him to breathe. Enough for him to see. 

 

He is on his knees, and Jon is standing in front of him, face upturned towards the infinite hunger of the Eye, meeting its gaze. Martin cannot see his expression, but his shoulders are squared defiantly. One hand is still clasped tight on Martin’s limp fingers, white knuckled and refusing to release. Jon is speaking - the  _ Archivist _ is speaking - but his words are lost to the rush of blood in Martin’s ears. He might be pleading or demanding or bargaining, Martin can’t tell, can only squeeze Jon’s hand to let him know he’s there. Martin drags himself to his feet, slowly, tortuously, and stands beside Jon.

 

The Eye rolls over its Archivist, over Martin, and back again. Capillaries flare like supernovas across the sclera, and the pupil dilates, constricts, a pinhole that could swallow galaxies. Its vast, impassive presence focuses, considers, and for the first time Martin feels something that might be -  _ curiosity? _

 

“I will,” he hears Jon say in the Archivist’s voice. 

 

Lidless, the Eye blinks. 

 

Martin wakes up. The hospital room is brightly lit, pale sunlight filtering in through the window blinds. He can hear the sound of people in the corridors outside, morning activities on the ward. Slowly, dazed, he sits up in the chair. Every muscle in his body aches and his head is reeling, hazy to the point of incoherency. What - just, what?

 

As he waits for his brain to come back online, Martin looks over at Jon, his body lying still, the sheets moving faintly with his breath. With his - 

 

Martin stares, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes, until he can be sure he’s not seeing things. Jon’s chest is rising and falling gently, his lips parted. His eyes are not moving behind their lids. He is sleeping, peaceful and dreamless. 

 

Martin wants to cry, or laugh, or both. Instead he sits there, watching Jon sleep. He doesn’t know how long he sits, just drinking in the sight of Jon, how he shifts every so often into a more comfortable position, asleep and wonderfully alive. At some point he gets a call from Melanie’s number and ignores it; he knows he’s missing work and doesn’t much care. He’ll sit there all day if need be.

 

Eventually, Jon’s hand comes up to scratch at his nose and he huffs an irritated breath. Then his eyes open. He stares at the ceiling for several long seconds, then turns his head to look around the room. He sees Martin.

 

“Hi,” says Martin, unable to keep a ridiculous grin off his face. Jon opens his mouth to say something, croaks unintelligibly, and tries to clear his throat. Martin gets him a glass of water from the bathroom tap and holds it up to his lips, brushing Jon’s hand away when he tries to grab it and only allowing him small sips. Eventually Jon nods and Martin takes the glass away. 

 

“Where are we?” rasps Jon.

 

“In the hospital,” Martin tells him. “How are you feeling?” Doesn’t ask  _ what do you remember?  _ He has no idea if Jon will remember what happened in the dreams, will remember - any of it. If not, well, Martin will just deal with that. 

 

Jon blinks several times, as if his mind is processing the question.

 

“I feel awful,” he says eventually. Then he reaches out, hesitant, and grasps Martin’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “Better for seeing you, though.” 

 

A deep swell of joy surges through Martin’s chest. He squeezes the hand in his, gentle but firm, says without saying, _I'm here, we're here together_.

 

“Welcome back, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short epilogue to come, in the next day or two.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.

It is remarkable, how quickly things return to normal. Jon’s recovery and return is greeted with varying levels of enthusiasm by both the Archives and the broader Institute staff, and is talked about for a couple of days before it becomes entirely unremarkable. Some people hadn’t even known he was out, although Ewan from the library tells Martin he  _ had _ found it odd Jon hadn’t been in demanding transfers from the Saraswathi Mahal Library or the Biblioteca Mariana in a while.

 

Peter Lukas comes down to the Archives the first day Jon is back in the office, clapping Jon on the shoulder as if they were old friends and pretending to be oblivious to his icy demeanour. A little while later he corners Martin behind a bookshelf and leans in far too close to him, smiling toothily. 

 

“Impressive work, Martin,” he says in a confiding tone. “I see why Elias told me to keep a  _ close eye _ on you. Hands on isn’t my usual management style, but in your case I might have to make an exception.”

 

Martin doesn’t quite manage to stutter a response before Jon steps in and firmly steers him away with an hand on his arm and an excuse about some research needing done. 

 

They argue a bit about what to do with the Leitner, which Jon takes possession of in order to keep Martin away from its influence. Martin thinks that’s probably for the best. The book horrifies him, but there are times when his fingers just,  _ twitch _ to touch it, and he finds himself thinking  _ one more dream would be nice, I never did get to go flying _ … He strangles the thoughts ruthlessly when he catches them, but still, better safe than sorry. 

 

“We should burn it,” Jon declares, wearing the same expression he would if talking about a particularly nasty parasite. 

 

“We can’t,” Martin tells him. “It’ll be found missing eventually, and Sonja will probably get fired for it, and that’ll be my fault. We have to put it back.”

 

In the end Jon says that  _ he _ will return it, and Martin makes him promise not to be all “Head Archivist” at Sonja, and waits in the corridor to make sure he doesn’t. Jon spins some story about finding the Leitner “wandering” down in the Archives, and to his credit is very conciliatory about it, assuring her he won’t tell anyone about the mishap.

 

“Not your fault, I’m sure,” he tells her. “These Leitners are tricky, they have a way of getting where they want to go.”

 

Sonja is so relieved that she doesn’t think to question anything, just takes the book and thanks Jon over and over for returning it so discreetly, she owes him a favor and if he ever needs something from Storage in a hurry she can help him out.

 

“I suppose there’s something to this being nice business,” Jon concedes when he comes back out, and Martin laughs and kisses him right there in the corridor. Jon huffs that they’re at work and it isn’t really appropriate, but looks so pleased about it that Martin kisses him again. 

 

It’s...some time before Martin manages to get a good night’s sleep. Things don’t get worse, but it takes a while for them to get better, his dreams filled with twisted architecture and silver corkscrew worms. He still wakes disoriented and unsure of what’s real, still has hazy days where what he’s dreamed bleeds over into real life, squirming behind the walls and spirals in the corners of his vision. He learns to ignore it, and it lessens over time, the influence of the Leitner gradually fading away. 

 

There are moments of panic when he is convinced he’s still dreaming, that he never stopped. It’s worst when he’s alone, and he has to walk around familiar streets and look at strangers’ faces until he’s sure their details exist. It’s easiest when he’s with Jon, who lets Martin examine his features at length for veracity, not talking, just staying with him until the panic recedes. It gets better, with time.

 

Maybe two weeks after it all, Martin finally asks Jon about what happened in the Other Archives. He hadn’t been quite lucid at the end, but he recalls Jon talking, and the weird moment of curious consideration he had felt from the monstrous watcher above.

 

“I...don’t know, exactly,” Jon says, brow furrowed. “It’s a bit vague for me too, honestly. I think it was...interested? I think it’s not normal for the Archivist to have, human connections. Anyone they care about and who, uh, cares about them. I think it wanted to see what would happen.”

 

“What, you mean your eldritch eye is interested in, in our  _ sex life? _ ” The thought is disturbing, to say the least.

 

“Not exactly,” Jon looks pained. “More sort of, generally interested in both of us, which is horrifying enough in itself. Also I did have to make some, uh, promises about pursuing specific knowledge sources. I’ll have to do some traveling over the next few months."

 

“Oh,” says Martin, then: “Need an assistant?

 

“I can’t imagine how I’d do it without you,” Jon says, smiling. Then he goes serious. “I - I don’t want to do it without you, and that puts you in danger. Even more now that the Eye has taken a specific interest. If I really cared, I’d stay as far away from you as possible.”

 

“You said yourself,” Martin reminds him, “It’s not normal for the Archivist to have anyone. You have me - and Basira, and Melanie, whatever she says. That makes you different. And maybe it makes things a bit more dangerous, but it also makes you stronger - makes  _ us _ stronger. Maybe that’s what will get us through this, in the end.”

 

“Maybe,” Jon says, and he doesn’t really sound like he believes it, but he also doesn’t protest when Martin pulls him into an embrace. He hums warmly against Martin’s neck. “I suppose I  _ could  _ use a research assistant when I travel.” 

 

Martin smiles. “We can talk about the per diem later.”

 

Martin does eventually find out where Jon lives - sees the inside of his flat, even. It’s nicer than Martin’s, but somehow Jon always ends up on  _ his  _ sofa after work or on weekends, poring over some dusty research file or ancient book while Martin watches television or reads something less dull. He’s started in on some introductory Platonic philosophy, which is interesting, even if he doesn’t see the practical point of a lot of it.

 

Some nights Jon falls asleep on the sofa, usually with his head pillowed on Martin’s shoulder, drooling into his shirt. Most of those nights Martin wakes him up and steers him to bed, despite Jon’s half-coherent protests that he’s fine where he is. Gets them both under the duvet where Jon does his best octopus routine, curling himself entirely around Martin until the morning.

 

Sometimes, though, Martin gets as comfortable as he can on the sofa cushions, turns the television off and lets himself fall asleep right there, with Jon draped over him like a heavy and unusually affectionate blanket, snoring softly into his neck. 

 

He sleeps surprisingly well those nights, and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember.


End file.
